The Millionth Chance

They had all the time in the world.

And in the end, they ran out of time.

The story of the airship R101 has haunted me, almost literally all my life. I was about 12 when I first read of it in John Toland’s Ships in the Sky. It is to me what the Titanic is to some people. And although I don’t have the time (tonight) nor the skill (ever) to do justice to the story, I  can’t let the 82nd anniversary of the disaster pass without a mention.

Rigid airships -- not blimps, which are still with us, but the immense ships which were in their maturity as much as 800 feet long and 130 in diameter -- may seem quaint, or ill-conceived, or preposterous.  But, like such vehicles as the cable car and the steam automobile, they were in their day an advanced technology, which for a brief time served their purpose until electricity or gasoline or improved airplanes displaced them.

The dream was for an Imperial Airship Service, to link Britain with Canada, India, and Australia with a fleet of airships which would be more than twice as fast as surface ships, and more practical than airplanes with their limited payload and frequent stops to refuel.

The dream began in 1924, with all the time in the world to research, design, build, and test two airships, more than 700 feet long, and capable of carrying 100 passengers and tons of cargo to India and Canada. Reliable, comfortable, and “as safe as a house, except for the millionth chance.”

The rude awakening came with delays, planned innovations that didn’t work, an airship heavier than planned, with less useful lift, and time and patience with the project running out.  In desperation, the ship was lengthened, and lightened, and hastily readied for a flight to India that was postponed, and postponed, and could be postponed no longer.

After a short and not entirely successful final trial flight, the R101 set out from Cardington, near Bedford, England, on the evening of October 4th, 1930. The weather was deteriorating, but with further delay likely to end the whole project, the officer in charge crumpled up the weather report and said “Let’s press on.”

The nightmare came in the early hours of October 5th, near Beauvais, France, in a storm, sudden dive, crash, and hydrogen fire.  Forty-eight of the fifty-four aboard died; and with them the airship program.

The final irony was the clear weather after dawn on the 5th, “perfect airship weather.”

The Millionth Chance by James Leasor, and To Ride the Storm by Peter G. Masefield, are good, and very different, treatments of the story.  

And some day I’ll revisit this post, to try at least to do it justice.   Having had all the time in the world to write this, I’ve made a desperate effort to lengthen it. But in the end, I ran out of time.